He could think of many things, if she only gave him half the chance. “You’re flattering me needlessly, you little slut,”
She laughed. “I just want to keep you happy,” she offered.
“You know what would keep me happy,” he replied.
“Yes, I do, Jerome, know what keeps you happy, and it’s all in dollars and cents.”
She was smug. But she was right.
“Then let’s get back to business,” he said, changing his tone abruptly. “I need information from a Midwest firm, a small outfit out of Chicago. They know everything that’s going on in that city and everything financial east of the Mississippi to New York …. I’ve been toying with some deals for six months, what they know could close the whole package in thirty days.”
“Why have you waited so long?” she wondered.
Jerome laughed. “The head of the outfit is as hard as nails, and frankly, Juliet, I was afraid for you to go after him. He’s that tough.”
“Who is he?” she asked
Jerome paused as if he was still unsure. There was more than just a little reluctance on his part, but he was nearly desperate to have his information, even if it meant that he might be sacrificing his favorite spy.
“You’ve got to be careful, he’s as shrewd as they come,” he warned.
“Who is he?” she asked again, annoyed.
He pursed his lips that tightened his otherwise handsome face into a pinched scowl that Juliet hated. Jerome was too damned dramatic sometimes.
“Michael Caproni,” he finally said.
“Michael Caproni, hummmm.” There was a pleasant look on her face, not quite a smile.
“You know him?”
“Only in passing,” she said. “More like, know of him than anything.”
“Well, maybe that’s okay. You’ll be forewarned. Still, I hesitate sending you on this one …” he started.
“Hesitate, why? He’s just a man.”
“But a dangerous one. He’s as cold as ice. There are those who wonder if he has a cock at all he’s so chilling.”
“Well, love, all I can do is try,” Juliet replied coyly.
Jerome could already sense the devious machinations of her brain, swirling about with all sorts of thoughts that were bound to be hazardous. He wondered if he wasn’t going too far this time. “Just be careful,” he said.
“I will, my sweet, have I ever given you cause to worry before?” she asked.
“Yes,” he pounced, his eyes flashing quickly. “All the time.”
“You have no guts, Jerome, that’s why you need me.”
“I have no cunt,” he replied sharply. “That’s why I need you.”
“Just give me his file, asshole, and I’ll get you what you need.”
Jerome handed her the manila folder, which she didn’t bother to look at. Slipping it into her purse, she left the office giving Jerome his complimentary peck on the cheek.
Watching her leave, Jerome knew that it would only be a matter of days and he’d have his information.
On the street, Juliet Remarque found the nearest public telephone, and dialed the number that she knew by heart.
“Darling,” she purred quietly to the man that answered her call. “We have him now, right where we want him. I told you Jerome would be in the palm of my hand. Now it’s time to celebrate.” She listened for a moment. “Oh, by the way, Michael,” she said just as she was about to hang up. “He told me you were dangerous.” She smiled as she spoke. “Do you think I have anything to worry about?” She began to laugh.
On the other end of the line, Michael Caproni just chuckled. If Jerome Sebastian only knew, he thought to himself, as he listened to the sweet voice of his fiancé purring like a jungle cat in his ear.
Taffeta
The color of my dress was green, the color of my eyes. That first time, I remember dressing myself for hours. Like I was a bride. I prepared myself well, if not nervously.
The day before I shaved my legs, my underarms and then I took bold strokes with my pubic mound. One stroke led to another, and what I usually did so I could wear a bikini … well, all the rest came off too. There wasn’t one lock of silky hair remaining between my legs. I liked the look. Taut legs, a firm belly, enhanced breasts to a full “D” cup and now a shaved pubic mound making me look almost virginal—almost. I was any man’s dream, so I thought.
On the day of my daring new venture, I prepared with a scented cream, every inch of me covered with a confection that would taste as good to the tongue as its aroma was to the sense of smell. Dressing, I thought that traditional black was only appropriate. Black garter belt, black silk stockings with lace trimmed tops and a black bra that pushed high my full “D” breasts into an impressive cleavage.
I strutted for awhile before the mirror, watching the way my nipples without encouragement seemed to pop right out of the bra. They wouldn’t do that in the dress, but then again, I didn’t expect to be wearing the dress all night.
My just washed red hair curled by itself. Shaking it out a little more vigorously than usual, it framed my face with sassy abundance. Lipstick, blush, mascara and a few wild colors at my eyes lids—I let the tawdry woman in me awaken, not realizing until that moment how honest I was being with myself. The more I gazed at the transformation before my eyes, the more real the woman in the mirror became.
Taffeta, there was just the green taffeta and the black spike heels left to make the picture perfect.
I thought of Michael, what he’d think of me if he knew. How many nights I’d laid awake waiting for him, listening to the sound of the computer keys clicking madly long into the hours after midnight. While I was only half awake, I hoped I’d find his body next to mine, moving in behind me like he once did when we were first married. But with the sound of the of the keys still clicking in the other room, it was clear I’d be spending the essence of the night alone.
I wondered what was so fascinating about his games and the net surfing that could capture his imagination for hours on end. “Just a minute,” he’d tell me if I called to him. But that was all the response I’d get.
It was all those nights that brought me to my indecent choice. That, and a chance peek at his covert activities one night when I rose from bed to get a drink of water from the kitchen. He should have heard me, but apparently he was too enthralled with the computer screen to notice that I was watching him from the doorway of his office. When I saw that his hand was in his lap, fondling his prick, I suppose my eyes opened like a green eyed dragon’s. I gazed at the monitor surprised to see that there were pictures on the screen, images of women in full Technicolor, body parts displayed like a porno movie playing with my husband’s mind.
Michael’s penis was erect, close to ejaculation. The way he his breathing took up that familiar rhythm I’d once known so well. No wonder he didn’t need me for sex anymore. Though I could hardly believe that this box of nuts and bolts and electronic wizardry gave him more than my warm womanly body.
***
“I don’t want an entanglement, I don’t even think I want an affair,” I explained to my friend, Diana, two weeks later as we shared a causal lunch at a downtown cafe. “I just want sex.” It sounded so bold saying that, but I relished the words for the power they seemed to have.
“You’re a woman of your times, Kristin,” Diana replied without wincing at all.
“And I’m hurt,” I added.
“Of course you are,” she said kindly. “Replaced by a computer?” Then she winced. I winced too, feeling about 2” tall, and much less a woman than I’d ever felt.
“I want to hurt him back, if I could,” I said. “But then, I don’t do computer sex. I hate it over the phone, and I’m not sure I have it in me to pick up guys in bars anymore.”
“Who does?” she agreed.
I sighed. “So, I suppose I’ll find some lonely man to moon about. Have the affair, go through all the wrenching drama, and hope that when Michael finds out he’ll be kind. If I
even care anymore.” I was totally sarcastic.
“Either that, or you could …” she hesitated, her thin lips making a half smile, her eyes dancing naughtily. “You could sell yourself,” she suggested.
“Sell?” I suppose I was too naive to get her message right off.
“Turn tricks, darling. Have your sex without strings and make some money on the side.”
I laughed, and shook my head, remembering how Diana liked to tease.
“You don’t think I’m serious, do you?” she said.
“Of course you’re not,” I said.
She was a corporate lawyer like myself, respectability written all over her wise face. She dressed in tweeds in winter and plain worsted cotton in the spring and summer. She was not a slut—the last woman in my life with scandalous secrets in her closet.
“But I am serious,” she countered me.
“Like you turn tricks when you’re not winning cases in court?” I still did not believe her.
She smiled: one deeply warm, and very wise and very obvious the message it communicated to me. “I started in college because I ran short of money. I do it now for fun.”
I couldn’t contain the way my heart beat, or my crotch pulsed. As her revelation sunk in, I could feel myself release a little stream of sex juice, as if I was actually aroused by the picture of her “other” life.
“Truth is,” she continued, “my case load is a little heavy this season. I’d love to pass on a couple of regulars to you until the work lightens. Besides, these guys will love you. They’ll love the change. I give them good sex; but you’d give them something new. Most of the time it’s just down and dirty sex. These are not lonely hearts looking for a wife . They want real lovers, sexual goddesses.
I couldn’t believe what I heard. And if she hadn’t been one of my best friends for nearly ten years, I’m sure I would have fled—not from judgment, but from fear. I was trembling everywhere as though she’d opened wide a door in me I never knew was there. Peeking inside, I was stunned by what I saw.
“Me? A goddess?” I gasped.
“Ooo, Diana, you know you are,” she purred.
I couldn’t reply. Every bit of me tingled with a thrill I hadn’t felt in months.
“Think about it, Kristin,” she counseled me. “They’re good clean johns, upright kinds of men who simply like their sex a little more …” she paused, “primitive than most.” She looked at me cool as a cucumber through her clear brown eyes. And for a moment, I sensed she was seducing me. And there I was, feeling as though the rightful order of my world had been turned on end.
Diana shrugged when I didn’t give her an answer. Truth was, I could hardly speak. We went on to talk about a dozen different things before the conversation lagged; and we finally parted with a sweet peck on the lips and a warm hug, her offer lingering between us so that we’d never talk again without thinking of it.
I think the word “primitive” was what remained in my mind, the word and the images of primitive playing a non-stop erotic masterpiece in my head for days. I’d never thought of myself as a commodity for purchase, though the instant that idea swept my brain, I couldn’t live without the luscious sensation that it raised.
Masturbations, daydreams, nightmares and fantasies—none could substitute for what I knew eventually I’d dare to try. I was haunted for days, pissed as hell that Diana had made this proposal; but realizing the effect it had on me. My choice was clear.
When I finally told her, I’d take one trick off her schedule, there was silence on the other end of the phone, while she considered my decision.
“I don’t think you’ll be satisfied with one, dear,” she said. “It’ll get in your blood.”
I didn’t agree. Surely one would be enough, one to take the edge off my sexual fury, one to let the desire have its night, so then I’d be done with it, one just because I couldn’t imagine my life without it any longer.
“You can start with George,” she interjected in the middle of my musing.
“George?” Sounded old and weathered to me.
“He’s not what you think,” she said, reading my mind. “About forty, great build and terrific sandy colored hair. He’s really exquisite and very discreet, and … “ she sounded aroused herself just thinking of him, “a lion in bed. If your cunt needs a workout, he’s the one.”
“That’s exactly what I need,” I answered her pleased.
***
Taffeta. I chose the fabric because of the sensual swish when I walk. Green. I picked green but it naturally works with my red hair. Tight. Because that’s the way a whore would dress. I admit, it was a little over the edge when Diana had told me to keep it tasteful; but I needed a costume that spoke to me as clearly as it would to the man that paid me.
“You say you’re going to a cocktail party, where?” Michael asked, noticing how I looked leaving the house. I think I shocked him, all dolled up. He hadn’t seen me like this in months. I wonder if I looked at all like the buxom women on his computer screen, and if for just a moment he wished I’d stay at home.
“Diana’s law office,” I answered him.
“That fancy, huh?” he wondered.
“She said she was getting an award, and as her friend I need to make a good impression.”
Michael nodded. “Have a good time,” he said lightly. “I suppose you’ll be late?”
“I suppose so,” I agreed. And that was it, not even the slightest indication that my attire had turned him on or that he had any interest beyond his offhand remarks.
As I walked out the door, the reality of my marriage stung, while the reality of my night suddenly loomed in front of me like a beckoning vision. To my despair and my satisfaction I had yet another motivation for being hired that night for sex: it was time to feel desired again, to bring on the allure and the sexual heat. It was time to feel like a woman again. It was time for sex.
There was a cocktail party at Diana’s office, just like she said, and George was there. Easy way to meet. Like any old date, was my first thought.
I saw the “once-over” in the handsome man’s perusal of me when Diana introduced us, like he was giving his approval. “She’ll do just fine.” I could almost read his thoughts, though it made me nervous, like a girl at a seventh grade dance, at least until he took my arm and gave me one appreciative smile.
I remember nothing of the small talk, the interminable hour before George finally suggested that we go to the boss’s lounge so we could be alone. (George was great friends with Diana’s senior partner, so I’d learned. How convenient.) I nodded, grateful to be getting to the gist of our relationship. I was too nervous for anything else but sex.
“She told me to go easy on you, your first time,” he said, as we rode the elevator to the eleventh floor.
“Easy? Is that really necessary?” I replied, certain that I didn’t want “easy” at all, not after days of waiting for this man’s hands on me.
“Exactly my thoughts,” George replied. “After all, I do plan to get what I paid for.” He was haughty, self assured, not exactly the kind of man I expected, though there was a sexual charge in his manner.
Moments later in the privacy of the plush paneled office, I felt his hands on me, the first in what seemed like years. It was probably only months, but the way my body suddenly jolted excitedly, I felt that a century’s worth of sexual energy had been stored in me and was about to burst.
He tore into me, practically tore away the dress leaving me in my black underwear. He fondled me hard, kneaded my ass and slapped it, then did the same with my breasts. I’d never been made love to like this before, and it was nothing like my imagination pictured. Yet it was exactly what I needed: the kind of sex that I’d never forget. He was paying for the merchandise and I would perform, our bargain was as simple as that.
It wasn’t five minutes of vigorous groping before George had me bent over the boss’s desk, my legs apart, his dick fast inside my pussy. Five minutes and he was thrusting hard. H
is dick was so firm, I assumed he was tearing me apart.
“You’re going to make a great whore,” he declared, slapping my ass. If he slapped it once, he slapped it a dozen times.
I heard the words and felt the sting, and began to feel a little more like myself again. Getting into the rhythm, I wriggled my groin into his, so he fucked me faster, spanked me harder, and didn’t stop for a second until he ripped off his orgasm with a tuneful groan. Once spent, he withdrew, turned me around, and pushed me to the floor, where I licked his half limp prick, tasting him and me on the long droopy shaft.
“Good start,” he said at last. “You’re going to work out okay.”
“You’ve got more in mind?” I asked, being pulled to my feet..
“Oh, babe, we’ve only started,” George answered me. “The night is young, and your ass is mine until three a.m..”
“Three?” I looked at him amazed.
“Diana figured you’d want to be in your bed in the morning, otherwise I’d have paid for the night.” He was brusque, assuming, totally undaunted by the fear that seemed to take its grip on me. I’d signed up for the night, and at midnight I had three hours to go.
“Go freshen your make-up,” he ordered as he slapped my ass again, tossing the green taffeta my way. He pointed to the executive bath at the other end of the office, and I dutifully obeyed.
An hour later we were in the midst of another party on the other side of town. Up three flights of stairs to a fancy penthouse loft, I found myself surrounded by women of the evening, all like me with hair and clothes and the make-up to allure, and the men about to screw them. Was this me? Dressed to kill. Body lush. The energy of the erotic night taking all my decency away? I had only moments to consider until a couple joints and a little liquor, and I was like all the other whores, flying high.
And before I could think, before reason could call a halt to my crimes, there I was with the taffeta gone, strutting about the palatial rooms it nothing but my garter belt and stockings. My bra discarded too, I paraded topless, letting any man who approached me, sample my flesh as if they were picking a peach from a bin of fruit.
Extremes Page 8